The Watsons
by kaeyes
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in hospital able to recall everything and everyone. When he sees John, however, his memory assigns him a unique role that is a far stretch from flatmate. Not what you think, I promise.
1. Chapter 1

John floated towards the hospital room, doing all he could to prevent a full blown sprint. _Seven hours_, he thought, cursing himself. Sherlock was knocked out seven hours ago by lower class criminals, and John was just now arriving. He'd never hear the end of it.

To be fair, he'd been across town running errands with his wife. Important errands. Grocery shopping, dental appointments, quick coffee stops with old acquaintances. Wow that sounded like a hideous defense. Sherlock likely wouldn't take domestic responsibilities as a valid excuse for his tardiness, but nothing could be done now. He simply hadn't noticed the twelve texts and nine calls from Greg.

Lestrade. The saint had finally caught him on the phone an hour ago, only briefly explaining that Sherlock had wandered off his crime scene in solo pursuit of robbers, only to be outdone.

"But he's fine?" John had asked, his coffee cup already in the trash can and Mary already following his heels. All the worry he would have experienced had he known earlier latched onto his shoulders and atop his chest.

Greg hesitated, but only for a moment. "Well, yeah. Physically."

"What on earth does that mean, physically?" John checked the panic in his voice. They were clear across town, at least forty minutes from Bart's. Panic wouldn't do any good.

"The doctors and I have been talking to him, you know, to test his memory and whatnot. Everything seems fine, but he's getting some facts confused." John could practically hear Greg biting his lip as the inspector debated what to say next. "John…I don't think he remembers you."

John had stopped running, then, leaning against his already hailed cab for support. He tried to swallow the bitterness in his mouth. Why did this have to happen now, only a day after the ex-flat-mates had the worst fight of their friendship? Only a day after John had walked in on a gruesome experiment and, strained from work and compressed from domesticity, had uttered the one thing he'd sworn never to say.

_Freak_.

The look on Sherlock's face was one he never wished to see again, much less cause.

John snapped back as he heard talking on the other end of the phone. "…and his answers are just off, that's all, and he swears he doesn't know anyone named John. But when I ask him what his name is, he—"

"Alright, alright. We're on our way."

And now, finally, he was here, greeted by a clearly burned out inspector. Greg lit up when he saw the doctor but moved his body in front of the door and put a hand up. "John. Listen, before you see him, we need to talk about his condition."

"Greg, please. I know you've been here all night but I'll deal with the doctors later. Mary will be here in a bit; she can deal with the logistics. Just let me see him. Please."

The man shuffled his weight, opposed but too tired to fight. "Go on, but listen. He's already seen several psychologists, and they say it's best for now we just go along with his created reality. Go easy on him and try not to look too surprised when—"

John had nodded his agreement but was already halfway through the door, rubbing a worn hand through his dry, thinning hair. He took a deep breath behind the blocking wall, composing himself before Sherlock was able to see him. He'd dealt with loads of patients before, medical and psychological. Seeing Sherlock battered up would prove difficult, but it was far from rare.

So he stepped out, purposely putting a bit of spring in his step and holding his head just a tad higher than natural, but the façade soon faded.

A cast on his left arm, a bandage along his forehead, an IV coiled around his shoulder. If possible he looked thinner, maybe even shorter. His frowzy hair desperately needing a wash and, even though his eyes were momentarily glued to the television screen, John thought he noticed more than an ounce of pain hiding behind the dilated pupils. But he'd no time to dwell on the idea. Sherlock soon turned his attention to him and, unknowingly releasing thousands of loads of worry from John's shoulders, smiled. His eyes seemed to say, _oh, good, now you're here so everything must be okay_. Talking must have been painful, but no matter. He was too excited at John's presence, too relieved, and fervently forced the syllable out with no regret as the very person he'd been dying to see had finally arrived.

"Dad!"

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**So this just sort of...happened. If you think it's worth continuing please shoot me a review, I'd be happy to expand!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys, thanks for the reviews! Here's more, as promised. I'm kind of excited about where I want to take this, but here's a fair warning that while I'll update as frequently and consistently as possible, I'm making no promises :) But I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Well that wasn't right.

John clutched the machine next to him for support, wondering if his face was as white as he suspected; from the furrow in Sherlock's brow, he assumed so. The doctor took a deep breath, kicking himself for not letting Greg explain, unsure how on earth he was supposed to _just_ _go with it_.

But his reaction was immediately and inevitably noticed; Sherlock frowned, rubbing his hands together at a lost. Physically weak, yes, but perceptions were high. "Did…did I do something wrong?"

John tried not to take a step back at the innocence. "No. No, Sherlock, no. I just, uh, wasn't sure what to expect. You know? I was just worried. You're pretty beat up."

The detective seemed to read John for a moment but eventually nodded. John tried not to stare as Sherlock groaned, readjusting himself in the hospital bed.

"Listen, Greg said you've already talked to a few doctors and psychologists, but would you mind answering some questions for me? If you just want to rest, it's fine, but I want to know exactly where you are so I can help you the most. Make sense?"

"Greg?"

John cleared his throat and called for the inspector, who tiptoed in carefully. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You mean Lestrade."

The two men chuckled. Some things never change.

John pulled up a rigid chair and did his best to get comfortable. "Okay, so you know Lestrade."

"Of course." Sherlock checked his know-it-all tone by glancing the doctor's way and quickly averting his eyes.

Interesting.

"He works at Scotland Yard with Donovan and Anderson," he continued.

"And your relationship with them is…?"

"Consulting detective. Solving murders, kidnappings, and the like. Though I prefer my freelance cases."

John nodded and looked at Greg for support, but he only poured himself a glass of water and tried to look comfortable. "Good. And I'm…?"

"My father." Sherlock offered a slight smile. "I understand the need to check my memory, Dad, but I wouldn't forget you."

"No, I don't suppose you would. What about your mum?"

Jaw set and eyes steeled over as Sherlock looked away. "She died." He shifted his weight. "I admit this part of my memory is a bit fuzzy. But step-mum is fine, too. I like her."

Something was lacking in his eyes, or maybe something that had always been there was now rising to the surface. Either way John recognized it only as innocence, as childlike wonder and a desire to please, to understand, to impress. The candid acceptance that death was real, and it was personal. The situation may have been fabricated but the pain, clearly, was not.

John felt a pang of pity but smiled, too, knowing that Mary would laugh at being seen as Sherlock's mother figure. She already acted as such, pointing out fibs and demanding manners. Suddenly John was aware of his own roles, of regulating sleep and food, of acting as a social radar. Was Sherlock's conceived reality really that far off?

"Will you take me home?"

"Tonight. Just a few more tests, bud."

Sherlock fidgeted. "The staff here doesn't know what they're doing. They've got my chart all wrong."

"Oh?" John grabbed the file and flipped through it. "What's wrong with it?"

"Well for one, my last name's wrong. It's Watson, not...Holmes, whatever that is. And look at my age. They accidentally put a three in front of the eight."

Lestrade spat out his water.

"What should be in front of it?" John asked.

"Well that's a silly question."

"Yeah, but humor me."

"Well, nothing."

Greg stood and cleared his throat. "John, can I see you in the hall? I think Mary's probably here by now." He excused themselves and found Mary talking insurance with a nurse.

Yep. Definitely a mother.

The men filled her in on the situation. Exhausted, Lestrade sat himself on a gurney. "He thinks he's _eight_, John. Eight, and running around crime scenes."

"Forget the decency, Greg. He obviously thinks he still lives at home." John ran his fingers through his hair. "What are we supposed to do? Create a bedroom for him? Quit my job to look after him?"

Mary giggled, putting her hand on her hip when John glared. "Well, look, I don't think it's that big a problem. I'm already staying at home to take care of Allison, and you hardly work fulltime at the clinic anymore."

Oh.

Allison.

His _actual_ daughter. Actually dependent. Three years old. Currently with the babysitter.

Did Sherlock know about her?

John groaned. "How am I supposed to follow his reality when I don't even know exactly what that is? What about his real parents? And oh goodness, Mycroft! What about Mrs. Hudson, and Molly? He thinks his father lets him dissect bodies and run experiments at _eight years old_! I know I'm not a psychologist, but wouldn't it be better to explain the truth to him now instead of watching it crumble as he realizes what really goes on?"

"It's got to be a coping mechanism." Greg shrugged. "Has to be. You're his father because, for some reason unbeknownst to us, that's what he needs you to be right now. If you want to find out the reason, you go along with it."

John glanced at the bedroom's door then back to his wife. "I don't know."

"We'll make it work. Besides," she said, kissing him on the forehead, "You've always wanted a son."


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson knew how to handle Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson. Army doctor, adrenaline junkie, blogger. He could handle unruly the detective like no other without the blink of an eye. Goodness, he'd lived through war, through his best friend's death, through rather unconventional marriage issues. Life could and had crumbled around him, but he stood tall. Loyal despite emotions and insane stressors. Nothing shook him, nothing wavered.

But when an innocent detective nuzzled his head into his shoulder during the cab ride home, he found himself at a lost. Just a little.

And when the man-child insisted that, no, they didn't live here but in 221B, he flinched through a rather circular argument about the new location (_yes, Baker Street is home, but we also have this place. You just don't remember moving because of your fall. It's normal._). But only slightly.

And when Sherlock, arm casted and forehead scraped, plopped onto the floor and avidly watched daytime television, he was at a loss for words. To an extent.

But now, when Mary appeared out of the second bedroom with a small child clutching her hand, and Sherlock made _that_ face, John was rattled. Period.

Sherlock leaned against the edge of the couch and clutched his accent pillow a bit tighter. Eyebrows furrowed and throat swallowed. With a concentrated glance at the girl, Sherlock cleared his throat and flicked his eyes towards John. "Who's that?"

"Sherlock," Mary said gently, sitting on the couch and putting the girl in her lap, "This is Allison. Do you remember her?"

John's nose and dirty blonde hair. Mary's ceramic skin. Shy but sparkling blue eyes. Sherlock ran his eyes over her, reasoning that the girl was roughly three though already possessing the loyalty of her father and attitude of her mother. She was likely average in her development—no signs of brilliance or monotony—and enjoyed nothing more than reading on her father's lap.

But he only shook his head, glancing again at John with thin pools forming in his eyes. "I don't remember my own sister," he said, voice hoarse.

John joined him on the floor and put an arm around him. Goodness, this was weird.Yet he reflected on how natural comforting the detective felt, wondering when this alternative lifestyle would end. It felt oddly comfortable, right. Yes, the doctor was rattled, unsure how to handle the situation and unprepared in what was to come, but that was the situation in which he felt natural.

Sherlock's created reality could not fit the world's mold. Adjustments had to be made—the addition of a daughter, the move to John's flat—but the core was crucial to remain untouched. Father and son. It was the only piece keeping his unhinged mind stable, and the only way to find out exactly why the reality had been created at all.

"You've had an accident," John coaxed. "You were hurt and your mind deleted and shifted some things in the repair. There's absolutely no reason to feel guilty, but it's completely understandable to be confused."

The detective nodded, obviously not fully convinced, and looked again at his newly discovered sister. John smiled at the thought; before the accident, Sherlock had actually been quite good with Allison. Awkward, yes, but surprisingly affectionate—only in the presence of John and Mary, no others. It was a common occurrence for Sherlock to strut around the flat, Allison hanging off his hip as he rattled off his latest puzzle or deduction.

"Hello," he said awkwardly, and Allison smiled. But she remained silent, as was her personality.

Mary laughed despite herself and made her way to the kitchen. "Dinner'll be out soon, loves."

"Go wash up, Sherlock," John instructed.

He frowned. "But I'm not hungry."

Apparently bodily harm and the loss of thirty years hadn't changed the detective's disposition to food. John sighed. "I wasn't asking. You're supposed to eat with your medication anyhow. Go on."

Sherlock grumbled something underneath his breath but obeyed, averting his eyes when John shot a warning glance. The doctor collapsed at the dining room table as the detective disappeared into the washroom.

"You're doing well," Mary said quietly as she set the table.

"I hid his wallet and phone in our dresser," John warned. "God knows what'll happen if he sees 'Holmes' on his ID. Lestrade's filling everyone in on the situation for us, but giving an eight year old a phone may not be in anyone's best interest."

Mary filled the four glasses with water. "Just try to enjoy the day with him. It's not often you'll see him so sweet and obedient. You ought to take him to his flat tomorrow. He's dying to, and the familiarity may do him good. Maybe even jog some memories."

The conversation ended as Sherlock limped his way to a seat. "Dad?"

"Hmm?" John sat his daughter on the chair next to him and began making her plate.

"What's your first name?"

"John. Why?"

Sherlock frowned. "I thought so. That's what Lestrade said, but when I first woke up, he asked me if I remembered a John. Why would he say that instead of father?"

John shifted in his seat. "I'm sure it was just a slip of the tongue. He calls me John, you know, and sometimes you call me by my first name when you're being difficult."

Sherlock nodded, accepting the lie and picking at his food as though he was being forced to eat an expired meal.

Yes, John Watson was feeling out of his depth. But that's exactly where he thrived.

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**As always, please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

"I said _brush your teeth_."

"I'm not tired! And I don't even have a toothbrush!"

"Yes you do, it's the packaged green one. Now."

Sherlock groaned and stomped his way to the bathroom. John followed and watched as the pain in his neck ripped the plastic and spitefully brushed the living daylights out of his teeth.

The doctor leaned against the door, nose pinched and headache brewing. Formulas and data still flew out of the detective's mouth by the dozen; old cases were mentioned with characteristic arrogance; pedestrians were swiftly judged as they passed the living room window. Yet the same individual capable off all this and more couldn't be trusted to eat dinner and brush his teeth.

"There." Sherlock spit into the sink, ruffled his hair a bit in the mirror (totally unaware of the adult reflection, it seemed), and scuttled away.

John caught him by the ear. "No you don't," he declared, dragging the indignant child to the living room sofa. Swiftly Sherlock was made to lie down and covered with a blanket. "It's nearly midnight, Sherlock; Allison and Mary are already asleep. I've let you stay up late enough. No more excuses."

"I haven't looked at a case all day." Sherlock stuck out his lower lip. "You know I can't be cooped up, Dad. My mind goes stagnant!"

"Yes, yes, I'll find you a case in the morning. We'll even visit Baker Street, alright? You're still not well, though, and you need rest. It's time for bed."

John began to walk away but was hit in the back of the head with a pillow.

_Okay_.

"Sherlock!"

"Why does Allison get her own room?" Sherlock sat up unapologetically and swung his legs to the edge. Apparently the sweet and obedient child Mary had foreseen only made minor appearances. "I'm older, aren't I, and bigger."

John placed the pillow at the end of the couch and forced the detective's head down. "Because I trust you to stay put. Alright? Now, please, I'm exhausted. Get some rest."

Sherlock made a face but snuggled underneath the covers. John sighed and switched off the light, grateful for the familiar bed waiting for him at the end of the hall.

"Dad?"

John cursed. Only two steps away.

"You've turned the light off."

"Yes?"

The room was quiet for a moment; John could just make out steeple fingers gathering underneath Sherlock's chin, the smallest twitch of his nose. Oh. The doctor cleared his throat and flipped the nearest lamp on. "Right. Sorry."

"I'm not afraid," Sherlock said quickly. "I don't remember Allison, though from my observations today I imagine her to be quite the klutz. I'd rather her not take a fall. You understand."

John stood silent for a moment, grateful that Sherlock's gaze was off him. Such formal language to express such an innocent, embarrassed plea. In the soft yellow light John could hardly miss the fragile expression, utterly wounded, too closely resembling the look he'd seen just earlier that week.

* * *

_Books. Everywhere. And files, and papers, and syringes and boxes and tubes. John stormed through the living room, kicking a box out of the way a little harder than necessary, and rummaged through the kitchen cabinets._

_He didn't bother to address the detective diligently working on something over the sink. It was doubtful that Sherlock even realized he was there, and even if he had, John was in precisely the mood to reciprocate for all the times he himself had been ignored. Now where was his mug?_

_The cabinet slammed shut as he ran his fingers through his hair. It wasn't fair. The hypochondriac he'd blown off at work a week ago was now actually very ill, and oh boy were John's bosses going to hear about this one. Not to mention the three incompetent interns he was trying and failing to train. His flat was hectic, filled with toys and wives that were just a little too friendly, a little too comforting for his bursting and itching personality, and no sooner had he arrived home before mumbling some excuse about needing air. Mary understood, of course. She always understood. Which only fueled John's hungry mind._

_How long had it been since he'd broken into a crack house? Chased criminals up the Thames? Fueled his instinct for survival on pure adrenaline? Fed his desire for danger that was carefully hidden until his wife's past came out?_

_Too long._

_ "__Where's my cup?" John seethed, finally admitting that Sherlock's lack of acknowledgement was getting to him._

_It took a few moments, but the detective looked up at John—though not really looking at him, now, because otherwise he would have known that what he was about to say next was really not in the best timing—and shrugged his shoulders. "Which is yours? This one?" He held out a short porcelain cup, which was of course the doctor's. But instead of beaming the sterile white that was its nature, the mug sported several splotches of blood and a small black circle that looked like some sort of ring worm._

_John snatched it instantly but, upon feeling the coagulated texture, threw it back into the sink, cursing as the handle chipped._

_ "__I'm testing the length of time it takes to—"_

_ "__Shut up." John stormed into the living room but flung back around. "You are not what I need today, Sherlock. Apparently a moment's peace is just too much to ask for."_

_The detective's eyebrows shot up. "No, you're here because you're bored with 'peace,'" he shot back, gleaning every bit of information he could off the doctor's rigid form. "I would have thought a ludicrous experiment would be right up your alley at the moment! Had I been simply reading the newspaper, your reaction would likely have been even more severe. Bad day, was it?"_

_ "__No. Stop it. I don't need you to deduce me or tell me what's wrong with me, and I certainly don't need to see my property abused by a ridiculous man! Why do you have you be such a _freak_?"_

* * *

Sherlock slept soundly that night, nuzzled up against the back of the couch.

John Watson, eyes staring at the ceiling and mind reeling, did not.

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**As always, reviews are more than welcome (Also, if there's a scene you'd like to see with young Sherlock and Daddy John, let me know and I may try to fit it in!). As a warning, I will be out of the country for a good part of August. I'll do my best to keep posts coming, but no promises! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock jumped at the knock at the door, his attention immediately diverting from the television to John. The doctor sighed and glanced at Mary; the detective had been extremely needy and nervous the past few days. He removed Sherlock's grip on his upper arm, and walked towards the door.

"Would you care to explain?"

John's form grew rigid as the elder Holmes entered his flat, lowered his umbrella, and took a seat in the chair opposite Sherlock. His heart dropped.

"Mycroft, he can't—"

He put a hand up and turned his attention towards his brother. "Hello, Sherlock. How are we feeling?"

Sherlock's eyes brushed over him for several seconds before he looked at John for answers. John couldn't help but comparing him in that moment to a lapdog growling at an unwelcomed stranger. His hair was mangled and shoulders stiff, but his eyes betrayed this look of hostility for want of protection.

"You don't remember me, then." Mycroft watched as Sherlock's face softened with shame. "No, I didn't think you would. You always have a way of deleting important facts, don't you?" He turned to John. "I've read the medical report. Thought I'd drop by."

"In private, Mycroft. Please," John said, though it was hardly a request.

Mycroft relented and followed John into the kitchen. "I'm afraid you may be out of your depth, Dr. Watson."

"What's wrong with you?" John yelled in a whisper. "You know full well the best thing is to go along with his reality. If he had remembered you, everything would have crumbled. These things take sensitivity, Mycroft, which I dare say isn't your area of expertise."

"You're coddling him. Letting him revert into days of no responsibility and total dependency. It isn't healthy." He shook his head. "Look at him. Watching mindless television, hanging onto you for dear life. It isn't who he is."

"Oh, and you're a specialist, are you?"

"I'm his _brother_, John. His actual blood. Don't pretend you know more because he's subconsciously offered you that role."

"Well someone has to be there for him!" John checked his volume and sat in exhaustion. "Sorry. Look, I know the situation's unorthodox. I don't know if I'm handling it the right way—I've had the same doubts—but shattering his perception will only hurt him. If he needs me to be his father right now, then I'll do it."

Mycroft straightened his umbrella strands for a moment. "Many people take one look at Sherlock and imagine him a product of a traumatic past. But you've met our parents. Tedious and dull, yes, but loving. Sure, he was teased as a child and couldn't make friends, but that's who he is. He accepted his identity and moved on." He paused and rested his eyes on the doctor. "Don't try to fix something that isn't broken. Sherlock is the way he is. Period. Why he's reverted, I don't know. But quite honestly, I imagine it has much more to do with anatomical reasons than psychological."

John set his jaw. "What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying, I'm stating it outright. Don't view this as a chance for healing. There's nothing to fix in him. There's no deep wound that he's battling or that you need to mend during this odd time. We all have scars, but Sherlock's made him who he is. Take those away, and there's nothing left."

"He's more than that," John bit.

Mycroft sighed and stood. "It's your choice to believe. The hospital put him under your care. So do what you think right—even if it's going along with a lie. Just remember my warning, John. My brother is facing a mental and medical issue, not a heart one. Don't read into it; you'll only be disappointed."

The elder Holmes made his way through the flat and didn't turn around until arriving at the front door. "Do get better, Sherlock," he said, and then he was gone.

The detective made a face at the door. "I don't like him. Who was that?"

"No one to worry about." John sat next to him and fiddled with his shirt sleeves, trying to lose his mind in the show. "Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you…doing okay? I mean, is there anything bothering you? Anything you need to talk about? I'm here for you, you know."

Sherlock slumped further into the couch and seemed to consider. "I'm itching for a case, but you're looking for one with Greg, aren't you? You always are. So something'll come up. Allison's been following me around all afternoon, and you've made me eat _three_ times today, which really isn't fair." He frowned. "That man…Mycroft? He told me to get better. Am I not already? I mean, I know that my memory of Allison aren't complete, and other things are still a bit foggy, but I'm okay, aren't I? Or is there more wrong with me?"

John let the detective lean into him. It was a good question—one that he couldn't quite answer yet.


	6. Chapter 6

John hated leashes for children. They were demeaning, he thought, and surely—surely—a parent could be trusted to keep enough control of their son or daughter to render such a devise obsolete. When Allison began walking, he understood just a bit more, but pride dictated that such a purchase was unnecessary.

Walking down the street with Sherlock, however…Well, he would have paid a pretty penny for one.

"Sherlock…Watson! Sherlock! Get back here!"

The detective huffed, crossed his arms, and threw himself onto nearby stairs. So far ahead had he been that it took John a good minute to catch up. "Geez, Sherlock, you're going to make me hold your hand, aren't you? For goodness sake, stay by my side."

"But you're walking so _slowly_," he whined, already on the move again. John groaned and tried to keep up, wishing he hadn't mentioned that they were meeting Lestrade at a crime scene. He'd keep it a surprise next time.

"What do you think it is?" Sherlock was saying. "A triple homicide would be lovely, but I could live with a double."

"Sherlock, tone down the joy." Though immediately obeyed, John grimaced at the idea of a child being this excited about murder. But it was high time they both got out of the apartment.

They walked in silence for a few moments before Sherlock suddenly stopped. "Dad? When Lestrade called you, did he say who else would be there?"

"No, I suppose the usual. Why?"

He crinkled his nose and took a step back. "I don't know if we should go."

John crossed his arms and leaned against a tree planted along the sidewalk. Despite his best intentions this morning, Sherlock still looked like he'd just crawled out of bed hung over—wrinkly clothing, swirling hair, jelly smudges on the inside of his wrist. More striking, though, was that the atmosphere of agitation hadn't yet dissolved. The detective was still wary of anything that moved, still careful to avoid eye contact with strangers—not even to deduce them—and continued to follow John everywhere around the house.

"Sherlock, two seconds ago you were bouncing down the street about having a case to solve. Lestrade's waiting for us, now come on."

He wrung his hands. "I don't want to go."

"Care to explain _why_?"

"Plenty of reasons," he stammered. "Scotland Yard can't depend on me forever, you know, and…and Mary might need help with Allison. Family comes first, Dad, that's what you always say."

"Nice try."

Sherlock kicked a rock. "Sally'll be there."

"And?"

"And nothing. I just don't want to see her, okay?"

John sighed and motioned for Sherlock to stand in front of him. "Listen. I know you and Sally don't always get along, but a case needs to be solved. Yeah? Now what's more important?" Sherlock said nothing. "Look, Lestrade's talked to the team. They all know that you're…recovering. They'll be nicer than usual, I'm sure. Nothing to worry about."

"Fake niceness is worse than being rude," he mumbled.

"We'll debate that on the way. Come on."

The two quickly made their way to the scene, a small warehouse only four blocks away. Triple homicide, as Sherlock had hoped. He solved it in twelve minutes.

"Terrifying, almost," Lestrade muttered to John as they took off their medical wear. "Almost like he's better than normal. Like there's less stuff for him to dig through."

John nodded but frowned at the implication. "Greg, by the way, where's Donovan? She's usually the first one here on this sort of thing."

"Asked her not to come. I told you I'd protect Sherlock, didn't I? Meant what I said."

John bit his inner lip and watched as Sherlock showed one of the forensic scientists his arm cast. "I appreciate it, but don't worry about it. Protection might not be the best option right now."

"Oh? Talking to Mycroft, I see."

"How—"

"He came up to the office just yesterday. Of course he did. Look, John, I know the guy cares about Sherlock, but he doesn't know what he's talking about. Treating him normally and carrying on like nothing's changed…it won't work. His mind's sensitive, isn't it, and people like Sally are just triggers." He watched Sherlock produce a Sharpie for a signature and smiled. "Thing is, I don't think he was excited today for the case. I think he's just happy to be around people, around you."

John coughed. "Mycroft warned me about reading into him."

"Sherlock reads people for a living. Maybe it's his turn to be read." Greg shrugged and pat John on the back. "I'll call you if there's any other interesting cases, but I think his time would be better enjoyed with the mundane right now. I could be wrong, but give it a go."

The doctor made eye contact with the detective across the room and received a smile. Maybe he'd give it a try.


	7. Chapter 7

"Yes, yes, alright. Just sit still a moment."

John sighed as his plea was ignored and the detective ran through 221B like a bloodhound.

"_This_ is home," Sherlock exclaimed, giving his skull a slight nod. He swooshed around the flat in excitement, touching everything as though needing to know it was still there. "My equipment, my files. Untainted. I do wish we hadn't moved after you married Mary; this place has a much better atmosphere."

That hadn't been how John had explained the move, but he didn't argue.

"Do you know," Sherlock continued distractedly, "I hated where I lived before I met you. Abhorred it, really."

"Oh?" John readjusted himself, fighting any signs that would show his interest. Sherlock didn't talk about his life before the doctor had entered it. The question was always skirted around or, at the very least, the detective insisted he had deleted the era.

"Of course I did. Not knowing who my father was? Or if I even had one…awful. And the flat…Goodness." Sherlock's face tensed, perhaps at the realization that he'd been talking of personal matters. He quickly sat himself down with an old newspaper.

"So, in your memory…I'm your father, but you didn't meet me until later?

Sherlock lowered his eyebrows. "Is that not right?"

"No, it's all good, I just want to know how many of the details you remember. I mean, it must be odd, since…you're eight."

"Eight and a half."

"Eight and a half."

Sherlock shuffled his weight and glanced out the window. He'd insisted on sporting a t-shirt (John's, actually) with khakis and dress shoes, only emphasizing his childlike qualities. His mouth opened several times but always clamped when words would fail. "I'm clever, Dad, aren't I?" he finally said.

"Cleverest chap I've ever known."

"But what else am I?" His eyes met John's. "I can't remember when I met you; I only know that there was a time without. Time lost its power, its concreteness, when I found you. Or you found me, I can't remember. But there's a definite break, a bad and a good with you as the line. On the left I was clever, but no one seemed to like it. Everyone else seemed to have something, someone to be clever or athletic or beautiful _for_. What good was my talent if I had nothing to use it for? I didn't know."

John listened in silence.

"I lived alone in this inner city apartment. Surviving. Eventually Lestrade noticed my talent and let me help out every once in a while, but it wasn't enough. He liked me for what I did, not who I was. My mind, not me. Eventually he got there and that's great, but you search for something automatic, don't you? I mean, shouldn't there be someone who believes in you the second they lay eyes on you? Who doesn't see you as an acquired taste?

"So I turned to what I could. Drugs, alcohol, sex, money, anything that could satisfy whatever this void was. None of it worked, of course. I've told you all this before."

_No you haven't._

_ How do you rationalize these experiences with such a low age?_

"But then you showed up, there on the right side, and I realized all those people who said I'd never have a father were wrong. You made me cleverer, even though that wasn't what was important to you. You just wanted me to be okay. Took me in and cleaned me up. Saved me in a lot of ways, even after I do something stupid like getting mauled by a band of robbers."

John stared at the floor for a while, not at all phased by the silence or even noticing it, only trying to wrap his head around the details. "Those are some very profound thoughts for a child," he managed.

"I've lots of experience," Sherlock answered quietly.

"Before I met you, then." John cleared his throat and tried to gain complete control of his emotions. "Did I ever tell you what I was doing before I got you?"

"Leading battles." Sherlock smiled and joined John on the couch, resting his head in the doctor's lap. John took a deep breath, reminding himself of the new situation and that it would probably never feel normal. That this philosophical tale had come out of the mouth of this incessant child. "I am quite lucky. A war hero for a father."

"I never earned any special honors," John dismissed.

"But your sacrifices, and your scars. That's how you explained it to me, anyway. You had to fight in the war, and I had to fight my own battles. Then, when we were both about to give up, we united. It's a good thing we didn't meet each other sooner, because then we wouldn't know just how lucky we are."

John laughed and removed a black lock of hair away from Sherlock's face. He had thought innocence filled those eyes but knew now he had been mistaken. Inside that mind was both pain and redemption. Wisdom finally bursting at the seams through childlike expression.

"Yes, very lucky we are."

And boy was Mycroft going to hear about it.


	8. Chapter 8

There was one too many bodies in the bed that morning.

John groaned as he rubbed his eyes and found the disheveled man curled between him and his wife. Already awake, Mary was sitting against the headboard, buried in a book with the slightest grin of amusement playing on her lips.

"This is getting ridiculous," John said, though he kept his voice low enough not to wake him. Mouth opened, nose crinkled against the sheets, hair mangled every which way. Even a soft snore escaped the detective's nostrils. Utterly ridiculous.

Mary turned a page. "He climbed in around two last night. He heard something outside and freaked out; I couldn't understand half what he was crying about. It was easier just to let him sleep here."

"We don't even let Allison sleep with us."

"Allison's much more independent," Mary said with a smile. "You've got to admit he looks absolutely precious."

John groaned once more and checked his alarm clock. No reason not to start the day; without work or the usual flow of cases, his need for activity was quickly increasing. Keeping Sherlock cooped up all day was never a good idea either. He pressed against Sherlock's shoulder a little harder than necessary until eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning," John said, flatly, before crossing his arms.

Sherlock stretched and curled himself back into a ball, wiggling his icy figure closer to John's legs as he pulled the sheets around his shoulder. He muttered something incomprehensible before closing his eyes again.

"You have to sleep in the living room tomorrow."

The eyes opened at the strict tone.

"No more of this, okay? You're…big enough to sleep on your own. What scared you last night?"

He leaned his head on John's knee and took a tired breath. "There was a dog outside," he slurred. "I don't understand, Dad. I don't understand."

"Don't understand what?" He pulled Sherlock up by his arm and leaned him against the headboard, trying to be patient as the detective fully woke up. As consciousness returned, so did fragments of irritation.

"Where is he?" Sherlock looked from John to Mary, father to mother, not bothering to dismiss any whining in his voice. "I don't know how I've forgotten. This stupid injury, maybe, I don't know. But you have to explain now."

"Sherlock, I can't have a conversation with you unless I know what's going on. Who are you talking about?"

"Where's Redbeard?"


	9. Chapter 9

John held the detective in his arms, watching as Sherlock curled in on himself and made a ball of cloth from John's jumper to cling. He didn't have a view of the clock but imagined Sherlock had been crying for about an hour; John's arm was asleep and tearstained, though the detective was starting to calm himself down.

The doctor sighed, wishing he could have been clever. His mind had actually considered buying a dog at the pound as a fake, but Sherlock's intelligence was still too advanced for such trickery. The doctors all insisted that he go along with any conceived reality, but a dog that had been dead for twenty years? No.

He was grateful, though, that Mycroft had told him about Redbeard several months before. John had been absolutely flabbergasted when Sherlock approached a K-9 unit and tried to offer a belly rub; Sherlock was so defensive that John couldn't help but text Mycroft for an explanation.

_History with dogs? –JW _

_Redbeard, Irish Settler. Put down. Sherlock's first emotional loss. –MH _

"Do you think it was because I was sick?" Sherlock asked now, his words muffled against John's chest.

"How on earth would that make a difference?"

"Maybe he died because I thought I died, and he wanted to be with me."

John sighed and ran his hand across Sherlock's back. "He died because it was his time to go. I know it hurts, bud. All we can do is remember him well and enjoy the time we've been given ourselves."

Sherlock looked up, his hair tickling against John's neck. "Did you ever almost die?"

John hesitated and looked at Mary. She nodded. "Yeah, I did. Several times."

"In the war?"

John thought back on his first return to London. He had nothing; no family, prospects. _Nothing happens to me. _His gun was always locked in his desk drawer, but sometimes, usually at night, he would keep it close, wondering about friendly fire. _Who would want me for a flat mate? _He gripped the detective a bit tighter.

"No. No, not just the war."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment; John wondered what odd thoughts must be swimming through that unique mind. Slowly, the detective wriggled himself away and nuzzled underneath the covers, eying his parents. John read the idea immediately.

"No, Sherlock. You can't sleep here tonight; nuzzling yourself here at eight in the morning isn't going to help your case."

"I'm emotionally incapable."

John laughed. Big words already seemed unnatural coming out of Sherlock's mouth. "Nice try. Come on; you can choose what's for breakfast."

"I don't want breakfast."

"Sherlock."

He groaned.

"Redbeard always ate his food," Mary toyed.

"And ended up dead."

"Nothing to do with the food, I promise." John swung Sherlock's legs over the bed and half-carried him to the kitchen, waiting a good distance before lowering his voice to a whisper. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Sherlock leaned in.

"Losing a dog is one of the hardest things in the world. But I believe you're strong enough." He lifted Sherlock's chin. "I don't want you bottling it up. You already changed the subject to where you'll be sleeping tonight; if you need to talk about it, I'm here."

Sherlock nodded and turned away, the words _don't get involved _ringing deep within his mind. If this is what it felt like to lose…well, maybe distance wasn't such a bad idea.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock wasn't…okay.

If that was the right word. John wasn't sure. The detective still insisted on sleeping in their bed, never receiving permission but usually curling at the end of their bed in the middle of the night; he still followed John around the flat, pretending that he had other business to attend to; he still sat as close to John as he possibly could when watching television or reading the paper.

But ever since Redbeard's "death" nine days ago, the detective hadn't uttered a word.

Not a single sound.

It wasn't that John wasn't trying; he purposely put on shows that were a laughing stock to the scientific community, but Sherlock never bothered to correct it. He would ask questions and only receive a shrug or nod in reply. Once, when John blatantly asked about the silence, Sherlock only shook his head and frowned as though he hadn't the slightest clue what John was on about.

It got to the point that John called Mycroft.

The two were at Speedy's now, Sherlock being watched by a frazzled Mary (Sherlock's obedience had never been an issue for her before, and in the face of no progress she was an absolute wreck) and a likeminded Allison who, already being of quiet nature, had adapted Sherlock's silence two days before.

Mycroft listened to the doctor's story, showing only mild interest, finishing his tea before offering a comment.

"Sherlock was never mute as a child; if you're still searching for psychological implications, Dr. Watson, I suggest changing your perspective. I imagine it's just a reaction to the blow to his head."

"People don't just stop talking," John bit, trying to watch his temper. He was here for Mycroft's help, not an argument. "Especially not after a traumatic experience like this. If I'm his dad in all this, I should be able to get my son to talk."

"He's been eating?"

"Perfectly. No disobedience in any other area."

"I don't know what you want me to say, John. Parenting is a puzzle."

"Mycroft."

The man leaned forward, placing his chin on his hands. "Fine. Assuming psychology could actually be a factor, the loss of Redbeard is fresh once again for him, yes? You have an eight year old who just lost his best friend. Sherlock always chooses odd ways to act out for attention."

"Eight and a half," John muttered.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, unamused. "Sherlock was a different person after Redbeard. He learned to close himself off. Distance himself. Not get involved. I assume he's simply repeating the pattern. Though mutism wasn't part of that initial change, circumstances are different."

"He doesn't seem angry, though. He's just as affectionate as before. Sadder, sure, but not bitter. I don't think this is for attention; I think it's just a sort of coping mechanism."

The elder Holmes leaned back. "Affectionate?"

"Well, you know. Following me around, constantly touching Mary and me. The usual."

"Sherlock isn't affectionate. Never has been. Not even as a child. He hated being touched."

John shrugged. "That's not who he is. He wasn't that way before the accident, either. He was always touchy on cases, or at home, just in a different way."

Mycroft sighed. "One thing helped Sherlock cope when he was younger. I can offer you the solution, but it may be a bit excruciating for you."

"What?"

John arrived home twenty minutes later, having stopped by 221B on the way.

"Hey, Sherlock. I'm home," he called at the door. The detective was sitting on the floor, examining some files Lestrade had left earlier in the day. He waved a hello and returned to his papers.

"I brought you something."

Sherlock looked up again, eying the bag in John's hand. He raised an eyebrow in question, following the doctor to the kitchen table.

John removed the violin and sheet music from the case. "Would you like to learn?"

Sherlock nodded, running a finger over the glossy edge, gently plucking a string. He smiled.

"Go on, then. Play around for an hour and I'll come listen to the progress you've made."

Sherlock glanced back at the casework.

"They're cold files; I'm sure they can wait."

The detective nodded and disappeared into the living room to fiddle with his new toy.

John sat himself at the kitchen table, sighing. It would prove interesting with a cast still on Sherlock's left arm. He'd hoped the gift would have produced some sort of speech, but no such luck. Mycroft hadn't promised an immediate reaction, only that learning the instrument would be beneficial to Sherlock's mental health. Theoretically, speech would come with it.

The doctor closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the nail-biting screeches coming from the living room. Hopefully this wouldn't be a long process.


	11. Chapter 11

John fished his phone out of his pocket for the fourth time in twenty minutes.

"Greg, I'm sorry, we're—"

"I have a case so interesting that it'll guarantee your _son_ will _never_ shut up, and you're taking your time? The evidence won't last much longer, John. I need him here."

John held the phone by his shoulder, dragging an indignant (and still silent) detective by the ear onto the couch. He wagged a finger, a silent _move a muscle and I'll kill you _while he tried to increase Lestrade's patience. "Won't last much longer? Why?"

"It's on the shore, John," Lestrade huffed. He'd gone through great lengths to keep an eye out for cases for the needy detective; he'd traveled miles for this one. Out of his district, yes, but he'd pull strings for Sherlock. Always had. "We've gathered what we can, but I imagine Sherlock could tell more if he saw the scene before the waves wash away anything he could notice. What's taking so long?"

John bit his lip. "We, uh…" He cleared his throat. "Sherlock lost his shoes."

"What?"

"His shoes. I can't find his shoes anywhere."

The line was dead for a moment before Greg spoke, slowly. "You can't find Sherlock's shoes. He really is a child, isn't he?"

John glanced down at Sherlock, who glared right back. He didn't see the need for shoes; on learning Lestrade had a case lined up, he'd made it halfway down the stairs before John caught up and demanded he'd dressed.

Everything was hastily put on, save his shoes.

The detective had looked frantically, silently, even entering his mind palace to determine the spot. Nothing. And his father was firmly clear that they weren't to leave the flat without the shoes.

John's thumb and pointer finger remained clenched on Sherlock's ear, making sure of his staying put.

"Lestrade, you have no idea."

He heard the inspector laugh and mumble something, probably explaining the scenario to the police force at the scene. "Look, I've cashed in a lot of favors to get permission for our consulting detective. I imagine everything will be washed away in about an hour; after the commute, you don't have a ton of time. I don't care if he's barefoot and silent, John—get him here."

John put the phone back in his pocket, using his now-free hand to massage his temples. Fine. "Sherlock, we'll go to the crime scene. But—" John paused, pushing the glean-eyed detective back on the couch. "_But_, understand something. This is an exception. I'm still cross with you for not talking, and for losing your shoes; in any other situation I'd make you miss this, alright, but Lestrade's gone through a lot of trouble. Don't expect me to make a habit of making exceptions. Got it?"

The detective nodded furiously, bent on racing John to the cab.

They arrived at the scene in a little over half an hour; Lestrade audibly laughed as they walked up, John looking utterly defeated as Sherlock trudged through the sand in one sock, an old t-shirt of John's, and his own dress pants.

The two older men leaned against a bluff as the detective examined the blood being washed by the waves.

"Couldn't even manage a second sock, could we?"

"Shut up," John said, again massaging his temples. "I haven't slept in days, Greg. He's improving on the violin, thank God, but it's all I can do to make him sleep. He insists on practicing in the middle of the night, and Mary encourages it. Helps Allison sleep, apparently."

"I could…babysit?"

John considered. "That might not be such a bad idea, actually. If you're serious."

"Why not?" Lestrade watched as Sherlock got knee-deep into the water. "I'm better with children than I am with…well, whatever on earth he was before. Still won't talk?"

"Not a word. He's eating, though. Gained five pounds since before the accident."

"I could take him tonight. Allison too, if you'd like. I imagine you and Mary could use the sleep."

Sherlock nearly fell as a large wave rushed up to his hips; John sighed, imagining cleaning up would be eventful. He shook his head. "Just take him. Maybe if he's gone for a few hours she'll start talking again. I've got two detectives now, Greg. You've no idea what my life's like."

Lestrade smiled. "Bring him to my flat around six. He can spend the night; I have the futon. If I get called in I'll just have him tag along."

John was in the middle of thanking him when Sherlock ran up.

"Figure it out, bud?" John asked.

The detective nodded.

"I hate to break it to you," Lestrade quipped, "but you'll have to explain it to us. That usually requires words."

Sherlock frowned, looking back and forth between his father and Lestrade. He signaled for a piece of paper before John shook his head.

"No. Come now, Sherlock. Out with it. You want to help the Yard, don't you? Be a good lad and help them out."

The detective watched the sand nuzzle between his toes.

Lestrade put an arm around him. "That's alright, John. Why don't I just take him now? Want to spend some time with me, Sherlock? I'll show you some more cases I've been stuck on; there's a whole file in my flat."

Sherlock looked at John for permission before nodding.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock bound into Lestrade's flat like a bloodhound, knocking over a lamp in hot pursuit.

"Alright, alright, sit down, won't you? I'll grab them." The older man disappeared into his bedroom, returning with a manila folder bursting with cold cases. Sherlock had obeyed by falling onto the couch.

"No, not there! You're sopping wet!"

The detective jumped up, looking apologetic. Greg sighed, cursing himself. "Sorry. Not your fault; I told you to sit. Just…" He left again, returning with a pair of basketball shorts, fresh socks, and a green t-shirt. Sherlock shook his head. "Don't be difficult, Sherlock. You're here to have fun, yeah? Go get comfortable and we can dig right in."

Sherlock did as he was told, grabbing the cases off the counter as he returned to the couch. He opened the first file, losing himself in the details immediately. Greg watched from the kitchen, preparing tea on a platter.

"Does your dad let you have biscuits at night?"

Sherlock shook his head, not looking up from his work.

"We won't tell him then, will we?"

The detective grinned, grabbing a few as Lestrade settled next to him. By the third page, the biscuits were gone and Sherlock was reading upside down, head comfortably resting on Greg's lap.

"Sherlock?" Greg gently took the folder and dropped it on the side table. "You never did explain today's case to me."

The detective began signing.

Greg laughed. "I didn't know you could do that. I don't speak it, though. Neither does Joh—er, you're father. I've never known you to be silent. Come on. What cat's got your tongue?"

Sherlock seemed to consider a moment; his brow furrowed and, after a moment, his eyes looked up and back to see the inspector's face. His voice was small. "Dad's mad at me."

Lestrade jumped, surprised to hear anything so soon. "Mad? Why would he be mad at you?"

"Well, he's going to be. Once he finds out."

….

John opened his door at ten the next morning and immediately asked what was wrong.

Greg, realizing Sherlock was hiding behind him, dragged the detective forward. "Go on."

Sherlock eyed the floor. "Dad, I…"

"You're talking!"

"And he's got something to say, John. Don't you, Sherlock? Go on, now." Lestrade's tone was serious, but a slight smile played on his lips.

"I…have Redbeard," Sherlock said, barely audible.

John stared. "You what?"

"I have Redbeard."

"Sherlock, Redbeard's—"

"I know. But I didn't want him to be, so…I got another Redbeard."

John looked at Greg, who was trying not to laugh.

"What do you mean you've got another one, Sherlock?" John asked. He himself was trying to suppress his growing anger.

"I found him at the park and brought him home a few weeks ago." His volume and rate suddenly increased. "I know you don't want another pet, Dad, but he's good. Please let me keep him. I've been taking care of him; you haven't even noticed! Please?"

John bit his lip. "Where is he?"

Eyes returned to the floor. Greg answered for him. "Check under the sink."

John cursed; Lestrade used all of his effort to remain stoic in front of Sherlock.

"A duckling?!"

Sherlock still maintained contact with the floor, sniffling and trying to hide a tear. John huffed, handed the brown and yellow spotted creature to Greg (giving the inspector a glare as he did so), and led Sherlock to the couch. He kneeled in front of him, demanding full attention. "Why is there a duck in the flat?"

"He's Redbeard the Second."

"That didn't answer my question, Sherlock."

"Can't he stay?"

John inhaled. "This is why you haven't been talking?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I thought I'd give the secret away if I said anything."

John threw his hands in the air, glancing again at Greg. "Could you not laugh in front of him? This is serious."

Lestrade nodded. "I know. I know. Sorry. We talked about it for quite some time last night. Sherlock, you shouldn't have hidden this from your Dad."

"How are you feeding him? Where did you get him?"

Sherlock didn't answer; Lestrade nudged him. "I told you, I found him at the park. He was alone; I didn't steal him from anyone. I just drop bits of food during meals to save for later. He doesn't need much, Dad. Neither of us do."

"When did you go to the park?"

"I go there all the time, mostly when I can't sleep. It helps me think."

"You go to the park at night? Alone?"

"Well yeah, but—"

"Do you know how dangerous that is?! Sherlock, what if something happened to you? I would have no clue where you were; how would I help you? You _know_ to always tell me where you are; you _know_ that. There's no excuse for what you've done."

A feeble nod. "I'm sorry."

John pinched his nose. Here he was, yelling at a thirty-eight-year-old-Sherlock-gone-eight for smuggling a duckling into the flat, not eating his meals, resorting to mutism, and exploring London solo in the middle of the night.

"Sherlock. I'm not happy with you. You shouldn't have lied, or adopted a pet without telling me, or stopped communicating with me. Yes, I'm cross, but I would have been far less upset had you been clear with me from the start. I'm most upset about you keeping things from me; I'm your protector, right? Your soldier. I can't be that unless you help me."

Sherlock nodded, accepting the hug by burying his face into the crook of John's neck. The doctor mouthed a silent thanks to Lestrade, who tipped an imaginary hat before slipping out.

"Dad?" Sherlock said, still muffled.

"Hmm?"

"I know I'll be punished. But don't tell that man, okay?"

John removed him from his shoulder. "What man, Sherlock?"

"Mycroft. Don't tell him that I tried to replace Redbeard."

John searched the detective's eyes. All Sherlock knew about Mycroft was from the one encounter a couple weeks ago. "Why would I tell him, Sherlock?"

Sherlock tried to return to John's shoulder, but he kept him up. "'Don't get involved.' That's what he said. He'll be disappointed in me, Dad, if you tell him."

"Disappointed? Why…Sherlock, when did he tell you that? And why do you care what he thinks?"

He thought for a moment. "I don't know. A long time ago, I think. It's one of those memories that are still fuzzy. Promise you won't tell him?"

John hummed, letting Sherlock lean back against him. No, he didn't promise.


	13. Chapter 13

John ignored a look from Mary as Sherlock climbed into bed, drowsily nuzzling into the blankets and resting his head on the doctor's shoulder. He always thought he would be a strict father; words would never be taken back, threats would be enacted, and standards would be upheld. When Allison arrived, though, he discovered that his soldier heart was speckled with soft spots. Sherlock's arrival only confirmed what he already knew.

He shrugged at Mary, knowing full-well that his _you'll never sleep in this bed again_ spiel was now void. She only smiled back. What else could he do? Sherlock hadn't been sleeping well, and the presence of the detective in bed—albeit intrusive—was a guarantee of his location. No son of his would roam the London streets at this hour.

Oi. He ran a hand through his hair. It didn't feel awkward to think of Sherlock as his son anymore; quite the opposite. He had always felt protective towards him—how could he not?—but this constancy was almost better. Sherlock was easier to protect when he could be controlled, watched at night, fed.

There was a small but vocal portion of John's mind that wished Sherlock's memory would never return. Wouldn't this childhood be kinder? His reaction to Redbeard, though not exactly correct, was better than the original self-exclusion tactic. Already Sherlock's choices were more caring, less calculated. Not that Sherlock had been abused as a child; he was loved dearly by his parents, teased stereotypically by his older brother, and given the best education available. John couldn't blame the Holmes' family for Sherlock's history of being called a…

Right. A freak. The very term John himself used not long ago.

_But I'm not like the rest. _The thought settled for a few moments before blowing away. Of course he wasn't the likes of Donovan or Anderson. John had one bad day; it was one slip up. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that the insult had rocked Sherlock to his core. Maybe it was the reason he was his father now, a manifestation of Sherlock's longing for acceptance. He remembered seeing the look in his eyes afterwards—_you too, John? Even you?_

Moriarty never called him a freak.

The thought disgusted him, ringing from nowhere. Sherlock couldn't stand Moriarty; he was a maniac, threatening the lives of the few people Sherlock cared about in the world. Yet there was always a lace of respect. A mutual understanding. The men were opposite, yes, but different nonetheless.

John moved a lock away from Sherlock's face, smiling as he did so. His mother told him—last Christmas, actually—that Sherlock was born blond. A few months later, the hair darkened; it was as though the very fiber of his being had to contradict any expectation or label placed upon him. Named for being "light-haired"? Go black. Deemed stupid? Crack the hardest cases. Called a freak? Get acceptance.

At all costs.

The doctor leaned into his pillow, letting Sherlock unconsciously readjust until the younger man's head rested on his chest. Maybe being his father was playing into both his and Sherlock's most basic needs—to protect and be protected—above what was logical. Maybe it would be better to crack the constructed reality and deal with the remains.

But to give up these moments? To lose this trust? He couldn't.

He just couldn't.


	14. Chapter 14

"You told him all throughout childhood not to _get involved_, that _caring_ was a disadvantage. It's no wonder he's trying to redo the past! Don't say this isn't psychological anymore, Mycroft, because we're way beyond that! A grown man doesn't bring a duck into the flat, terrified that the scary man he met days ago will judge him for it!"

Mycroft leaned against his brown leather chair, his eyes fixed on a point level with John's eyes but just beyond. They were twenty minutes into this conversation and still getting nowhere. "Dr. Watson—"

"John. It's John, you pretentious…it's John. Don't patronize me."

A tight smile. "John. Whether I agree with you or not, I don't quite follow what you wish to gain from this conversation."

"I want him to have a brother. He's getting a rare opportunity here, Mycroft, to do the screwed-up part of life all over again. Be there for him this time."

"I was the first time," Mycroft said, quickly checking his tone. He wasn't prone to outbursts; he wouldn't start now. "I was there. I was his protector, John. You protect him now in your own way, don't you? You hide him from Donovan; you don't tell him the truth about what happened. You think lying is kinder. I am not concerned with kindness, _John_. His protection was my main concern, and I quickly learned that outside forces will not always be under my control. I cannot always prevent Donovan's and Anderson's and mean children and the death of animals, of people. Redbeard's death is not the worst thing Sherlock's been through, but it hurt him the most because I taught him how to protect himself. That, John, is the kinder option."

The doctor walked to the other side of Mycroft's library, pouring himself a glass of scotch, then another. "I'm sorry. I know you care about him; I'm not saying you don't. I shouldn't have implied that. But I do have a different opinion about what's best for him. He's chosen me as his caretaker. I think it would be good if you were in his life. A compromise between are ideologies, right? We tell him the truth about who you are, but you aren't…well." He took another drink. "The Ice Man."

Mycroft sighed, glazing his eyes over a few of his volumes. "I hardened Sherlock's heart after Redbeard's death, John, because another of infinitely greater importance to him was imminent. Please understand that everything I do is calculated; the process may be cold, but the drive is not. Love is a vicious motivator, as Sherlock says."

John put his drink down, seeing something close to pain in Mycroft's eyes. "Who did you both lose?"

"Has Sherlock ever mentioned Sherrinford, John?"


	15. Chapter 15

That night, John let Sherlock rest his head in the crook in his shoulder while they watched an old movie. Mary and Allison were out getting groceries or something; John couldn't really remember. He wasn't paying much attention to the film, either.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

John paused the movie. "I was wondering…I was wondering if I could test your memory a bit more."

Sherlock frowned but didn't stir. "I thought I was better."

"You are," John said quickly. "You're fine. It's just, we haven't talked about it in a while. And you know that you're still missing some pieces."

A pause. "Okay."

"Good." John took a deep breath. "Do you remember anyone named Sherrinford?"

"No. Should I?"

"What about the man that's been here a couple times? Mycroft."

"I don't like him."

John grinned. "Yeah, okay, but do you remember him at all?"

"You said I shouldn't worry about him. Can you start the movie again?"

"In a minute. I know, but…well, you should remember them."

"Who are they?"

John paused. He'd discussed it with Mycroft and his family for hours. It was the best option. "They're, uh, your brothers."

Sherlock sat up, clumsily, and looked at John. There was only confusion in his eyes. "Brothers?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Why did you—"

"I didn't want to upset you. I know it can be overwhelming, Sherlock. I just want—hey, where are you going?"

Sherlock was walking towards the back of the house, suddenly turning back. His arms flailed as he talked. "I thought I was rubbish for not remembering a sister. Now two brothers, too? What kind of person doesn't remember…" and he broke into tears.

John returned him to the couch and let him cry into his shoulder. "It's not your fault. Hey. They aren't hurt by it, okay? You had in accident. I'm sure it'll come back to you eventually. I promise. That's why I didn't tell you at first. But…well, it's been a few weeks, and I want you to have a relationship with Mycroft. He cares about you. You're his little brother."

Sherlock shook his head, stunned. "I can't believe…how could you be his father? He's so…_not you._"

John smiled. "So are you. We're all different. You've got strengths that I couldn't begin to dream about, Sherlock. Will you let him take you out to lunch? It would make me…it would make your mother and I very happy."

He thought for a moment, still resting in the crook of John's shoulder. "What about Sherrinford?"

And this was the point when John was supposed to be honest. _He died, Sherlock, when you were young. Older than you are now, but…well, that's a bit complicated, isn't it? _But the news of his mere existence had hurt Sherlock; how could he, in the same swoop, reveal his death?

"Maybe you'll meet him later," he said weakly. "One step at a time."


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock watched the door like a dog. Or maybe more like the duck who was sitting in his lap and nibbling on a cracker.

John picked up the duckling with a muted sigh. "Sherlock, you're getting crumbs all over."

"Sorry, Dad," he muttered, but his eyes didn't move.

"Hey." John sat next to him, waiting to be acknowledged. "You don't have any reason to be nervous. He's just going to take you out for lunch."

Sherlock crinkled his nose, shuffled his weight. "I don't think he likes me very much."

"He loves you, Sherlock. He's your brother."

"He'll be mad. That I don't remember."

"He understands." John put the duck on the ground, watching him waddle around the ottoman. "Eat something, okay?"

"Dad—"

"No but's. You're worrying me, hardly touching your dinner. Don't make Mycroft worry, too."

Sherlock let out a resigned sigh. "'Kay."

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock jumped.

"Hello, brother dear," Mycroft said as John opened the door.

"You've gained three pounds since I've seen you."

"Sherlock!" John put his face in his hands.

Sherlock looked up, unsure what he did wrong. His dad was usually proud of his observations. "Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock looked to Mycroft, noting a slight look of annoyance. But it quickly passed.

"We'll get a light lunch, then, shall we?"

Sherlock nodded, looking at John. _Do I have to? _The doctor's expression was unmistakably a _yes_.

"Interesting choice." Mycroft looked the ground. "But I do think shoes will be necessary today."

"Grab some socks out of my dresser," John said, and Sherlock scampered away. The doctor looked embarrassedly at Mycroft. "He's a bit of a handful lately."

"Yes, Greg Lestrade mentioned his aversion to shoes. And Mary mentioned he wasn't eating or sleeping well."

John frowned, rattled from Mycroft's network but not exactly surprised. "Look, he's really nervous, so be…not yourself?"

"Yes."

"And, I should probably tell you, I didn't exactly mention Sherrinford's passing."

"Dr. Watson—"

"If you want to tell him, fine. It's your call. Just be gentle."

"He's a grown man, John, not a…" He looked around the flat. "…duckling."

John shrugged, not exactly agreeing. He looked down the hall. _How long does it take to find socks? They're right in the top drawer, next to…_

He cursed.


	17. Chapter 17

"Hey!" John burst into the room. Sherlock clenched his hands together. "What do you have there?"

"Nothing." Sherlock backed away and sat on the floor, back pressed up against the wall. He didn't look up, but John could see the redness of his face.

John cursed and bent down. "Sherlock. What did you find? I need to know so we can talk about it."

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Sherlock—"

"It doesn't make sense, Dad."

"Okay, let's just take a deep breath and—"

"Why did you tell me I had a phone?" he bit.

John stared. "What?"

"I could be talking to Lestrade about cases. I could be finding things out for myself." He opened his palm and thrust the smartphone forward. "I didn't do _anything_ wrong. Why'd you hide it from me?"

"Calm down. I just…" He stood, feeling oxygen return to his lungs. "It didn't cross my mind, Sherlock. After your accident there's been a lot to take care of. Your phone was the last thing I was worried about."

He pouted, holding out his hand further. "Well unlock it."

John hesitated, knowing the contacts in the phone. Parental numbers that would put his world out of whack. Homeless networks that someone of his age had no business dealing with. And who knows what else. "Sherlock. Watch the attitude."

"Dad, come on. I don't remember the password, just do it already."

"Sherlock, I said watch it. You don't raise your voice at me every time you get upset. I know you're going through a lot, but you still have control over your behavior." He took the phone and placed it in his pocket. "You can have this back when you're done having lunch with your brother. I'm going to ask him how you behaved, and if you were smart with him I'll hold onto it longer. Understood?"

"This is bull—"

"_Sherlock._" John handed him a pair of socks and motioned towards the door. "Go on, don't keep Mycroft waiting. This discussion isn't over."

Sherlock grabbed the socks and stomped out of the room. John rummaged through the drawers the second he was gone. _Sherlock's ID. Gun. _He'd gotten off easy with the phone. Sighing, he returned to the now-empty living room, pressed _5646 _on the phone's screen, and began deleting away evidence of Sherlock's past life. He didn't give himself time to wonder if it was the right thing.


	18. Chapter 18

"Are you mad at me?"

Mycroft stopped walking and looked back at his little brother. Sherlock kept his eyes to the ground, kicking a pebble off the sidewalk.

"Why do you think so?"

"I don't remember you. And you just seem like a mad person. Generally speaking."

Mycroft sighed and opened the door to his hired car. Sherlock didn't move to get in; the elder signed and leaned against the window. "Sherlock, I very much doubt that your amnesia is conscious—though I can't say I would put it quite past you. Regardless, you are irrevocably and forever my little brother. I will now and forever be in a constant state of affection and anger over you."

Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth tug upwards. "You use adult words with me. Dad doesn't do that."

"John fears overwhelming you. It's the same reason he confiscated you phone." He looked down. "I expect you to fully listen to him, Sherlock. He has only your best interest in mind."

Sherlock sat himself on the sidewalk. "John's not your dad, is he?"

"…No. No, he's not."

"Everything's so confusing."

Mycroft looked around as if to check for witnesses before joining him on the sidewalk. "Sherlock. You need to understand that not everything you think is true, and you are not alone in this. Everyone you'll ever meet currently believes things that are not so; some hold beliefs that are completely contradictory to one another. Confusion is part of life. All that is absolutely required for you to know is that you are incredibly cared for."

"My dad does love me a lot."

"Yes he does."

"And Lestrade. And mum. And you?"

"And me. Now. Lunch?"

Sherlock crinkled his nose.

"Your aversion to food is not—"

"I'm not _hungry_."

"Inconsequential."

"But _Mycroft_…_"_

"When on earth did you get so whiny?"

Sherlock huffed. "Fine. But you have to take me somewhere else first."


	19. Chapter 19

John rolled over in bed and found empty space where his son should have been. His eyes slowly opened, seeing his wife sound asleep with no black curls obstructing her from view. A gentle roll of thunder echoed in the distance, followed immediately by a close, sharp clap. He fumbled for the glasses he was needing lately.

"Sherlock?" He stumbled into the living room and found it empty; his mind was quickly waking up, the fear that he'd again ventured out into the night alone growing. He cursed under his breath and started for the front door.

"Don't leave."

John jumped and flipped around. "Sherlock?" He moved carefully to the center of the room, bent down, and saw the detective clutching one of the legs beneath their desk.

"What on earth are you doing under there?"

"Don't leave, Dad."

John sighed and sat on the floor; Sherlock pushed closer to the wall. He could only just make out his pale frame in the half-light. "You know it's just thunder, don't you? Nothing to be afraid of."

Sherlock said nothing and ducked his head after another clap as though bombs were going off in the flat.

"What have you got there?"

Sherlock timidly showed his small stuffed toy. "Redbeard."

"Where'd you get him?"

"Mike."

John smiled and crawled under the desk with him. "He'll protect you from the storm, hmm?"

"I'm eight, Dad, not four," he said, but clutched John's arms as the home shook.

"Eight and a half, I thought."

"Right. That's what I meant."

"Thunder and lighting, you know, they're just electric. Your science books explain all about them, I bet. We can look through them tomorrow. You'll be able to explain it better than me by the end of the day."

"Now?"

"It's three in the morning, Sherlock. Come back to bed?" There was a pause. "I'll keep you safe, hmm?"

"Something might…"

"Nothing will happen to you. Here." John crouched out from under the table, feeling his back protest as he slid Sherlock out by the shoulders. "I just want you to try to sleep for me, alright? I'll stay up and keep watch."

He allowed John to tuck him into bed, careful not to disturb Mary. "No, you sleep too. Redbeard will keep watch."

"Alright. Redbeard, I expect a good night's report. Understood, soldier?" John saluted and Sherlock laughed, nuzzling into the covers.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?" John was already feeling his eyelids fall heavy.

"I don't mind Mike so much."

"Good. He cares about you very much, Sherlock."

"He said the same thing about you."

John smiled and turned out the light. "


End file.
